


Sending A Message

by almeaculpa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almeaculpa/pseuds/almeaculpa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Moriarty is a spider. Some spiders are<i> venomous</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sending A Message

Jim is devious. He has planned this down to the last sigh, through every expression of vulnerability. He has hired a man to synthesize the venom, hired another man to suspend it in a silicon based matrix. He knows exactly what he wants Mycroft to see. He has been laying traps for months, has been the only man the younger Holmes could see as an equal, has been flirting with the kind of gusto one generally finds in bad American films. 

He has Holmes panting. 

Sherlock is on his knees, quivering with tension and so hard his cock is weeping down the crack of Jim's ass. Sherlock is gagging for it, ready to push inside Jim with none of the prep Jim is sure he's read somewhere that he deserves. And when the detectives spit-slicked fingers slip inside him Jim feigns an impassioned moan like it's sweeps week, so much work has gone into this. He's fellated those violinists fingers for nearly an hour and been deliberately flexing his asshole for twice that long - as if he hadn't worked three fingers into himself for an hour before coming to Baker Street in the interest of his own health and wellness. He'd been trying to prepare himself for intimacy but there is no intimacy in this. Sherlock pushes inside him like he's cutting the queue for self-checkout at Sainsburys and gets to work as quickly - goal oriented.

Jim puts on a few whorish moans and gets one brief flash of what all the noise is about when Sherlock's hips stutter in some clever way before the virgin is gasping his apologies between Jim's scapulae.

Eight pushes and the subject of a thousand novels is laid to rest, orgasm is just a mess he wants only one part of.

He is, surprisingly, still hard. His cock is hanging heavy between his slim, pale thighs. Sherlock is shuddering, slipping out of him with a gasp and a cry, leaving behind a sensation of moist fullness that's not at all unlike serious gastric distress. Jim would like to clench this memory out of his bowels soonest but he locks it down, knows there's nothing as like a trip to the loo to kill the mood (he's done his reading).

"Sherlock. Sherlock I - " he lets his voice trail off, then picks up again, powerless and plaintive, "I didn't - I nearly ..."

Brilliant Sherlock takes the hint, still quivering his own premature release and high on endorphins. Must have done his own reading too because he slips out of Jim, leaves the criminal on his knees with virgin jism trickling inexorably out of his anus. Moves around front, on his knees now, pushing Jim up to wrap his lips around the smaller man's shaft without a word, no gag reflex and a sense of contrite apology practically steaming out his ears.

Jim has **won** and he wants to ice the cake. Sherlock has just fucked him slicked with spit and precome, Jim is a model of courtesy with lube trickling off the underside of his dick. He starts to dip his hips into the wet suction in front him, finds a friction that's acceptable, one that tightens something in his sac, and drives into it, fucking Sherlock's tight mouth like the detective has control of his gag reflex and _hasn't_ started seizing beneath the hand Jim's woven into that ridiculous hair. Sherlock's throat tightens inexorably as Jim thrusts and he finds himself fighting against the scrabble of Holmes' hands pushing frantically at his hips. He looks down, watches his shaft moving between those pretty lips and gives inarticulate thanks to the local paralytic that's kept that jaw open - then he looks right into those cold and _panicking_ blue eyes - heaves in one desperate gasping breath and chokes out, "I said, don't come in me, Holmes." and watches the lights go out. 

The explosion of synapses behind his own eyes is immediate - he is not even aware of his own climax as pleasure in the first moments, he is afraid for a moment he's had a stroke until the intensity ebbs away and the pleasure rushes in. He releases Sherlock's head with something that is almost a caress, notes in an idle and organic bliss that he has some of those curly brown hairs stuck between his fingers. He holds his hand in front of his face, focuses first on it, then past it.

His ejaculate is worked into the foamy saliva of Sherlock's last convulsion, it is trickling from between those lips like poetry in a dead language. Jim uses the afghan and carefully wipes the last drops of envenomated lubricant from his sac and shaft, the spunk from his thighs, smiling. (Because he is, after all, a spider.) 

He dresses, takes a picture, leaves the meat that had called itself Sherlock on the sitting room carpet, a tableau for Mycroft or any other sad sod who thinks he can beat Jim motherfucking Moriarty at _any_ game.

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry. Someone told me murderporn was never sexy and I just thought, "I bet it would be if Moriarty did it."


End file.
